Page 79 of Manner of Death

“Not enough.”

Yeah, enough, because Sawyer’s lids were obviously getting heavy. Bashir didn’t try to keep him awake. He needed all the rest he could get. That, and Bashir knew from his own experiences that there was nothing more miserable than someone trying to keep him focused while drugs were trying to pull him down. Better to just let him go to sleep, and they could talk more when he was lucid. Hell, Sawyer was probably exhausted just from forcing himself to be that awake and coherent for a few minutes to talk to Bashir.

As Sawyer slept, Bashir kept a gentle grip on his limp hand.

They had their work cut out for them. With the case, yes, but he was giving himself a reprieve from that for tonight. Detective Walker was working on it. If Bashir was needed, he’d respond. Right now, all Sawyer needed to do was recover. All Bashir needed to do was be here and support him. For a little while, they could tap out and let the other adults handle the case.

But this thing between them—they’d need to do some work on that once they had enough breathing room. Bashir had been so sure he was done being personally involved with Sawyer. He was also usually the type who could remain objective enough to know that one crisis didn’t negate another problem. He wasn’t the kind of person who would suddenly put aside an interpersonal conflict because the other person was injured or sick. His whole family was still shocked he’d stuck to his guns and refused to visit his dying uncle. That he’d meant it when he said that the man’s health issues didn’t erase his homophobia, and he wasn’t interested in pretending otherwise.

A few years ago, Bashir had been in the process of breaking up with an old boyfriend, Tim. Tim had decided he didn’t want to stop cheating, and Bashir had decided he didn’t want to put up with that. Then Tim had been seriously injured snowboarding. Bashir had come to the hospital to advocate for him until his family arrived, and he’d helped Tim get home after he was discharged. But then, to Tim’s astonishment, Bashir had continued moving out.

“You’re just going to leave me?” Tim had sputtered from the couch. “When I’m all fucked up like this?”

“I was leaving you anyway. Do you think being laid up cancels out cheating on me?”

So, no, it wasn’t remotely beneath Bashir to stick to his guns.

But Sawyer’s accident had rattled him.

He didn’t think it was because Sawyer’s brush with death made him a saint. Rather, it directed a very unflattering light onto how unforgiving Bashir had been over this situation. He’d known why Sawyer did what he did. He’d known the evidence was, whether he liked it or not, pointing squarely at Tami.

Yet he’d cold-shouldered Sawyer anyway, and now he was just relieved beyond words that Sawyer was still here. Still willing and eager to talk to him, and… still here. Still alive.

He gently brought up Sawyer’s hand and kissed the backs of his knuckles.

We’re going to have a lot of work to do when this is all over.

But I’m in if you are.

Chapter 22

The most awkward thing was deciding who to go home with.

There was no doubt Sawyer was going to need some help for a few more days, especially after being in the hospital for five. He felt like that was too long—that infection had sucked, but it hadn’t been that bad. Or at least the drugs had made it seem less bad. And it wasn’t like his neck was actually broken, just strained. The only thing that was broken was his left arm—a compound fracture of the radius and ulna that was going to take way too long to heal. But it would heal, he was told, and that was the important thing. It would heal, and so would the rest of him.

Not if he had to live with his sister, though.

Sawyer stared at the tenth message from Jessica just this evening. She’d found out about his accident—not because he’d asked anyone to call her, screw that, but through her local contact, who was probably Felix. Rather than being dismayed by what had happened to him, she was weirdly enthusiastic about it.

“Just think!” she’d said during the one conversation they’d had after her first flurry of texts. “You’re the ultimate insider in this case now! Targeted by the killer himself…seriously, it’s gold! You can’t make this stuff up! I have to be there to see how it all ends. And to take care of you, of course,” she added at the end, like that helped.

“No.”

“Who else is going to sit around with you all day?” The sarcasm in her voice had been cutting, and Sawyer didn’t like that it found its mark. The truth was…he wasn’t sure.

The second Molly heard he was in the hospital, she’d reached out of course. She’d offered up a place in her home, or one of her sisters if he preferred to stay in his own place. “I’d love a break from them,” she’d said in an honest and tired tone of voice. “And they both know how to care for someone who needs help.”

“I appreciate that,” Sawyer told her, “but I’m not really comfortable with a stranger coming into my house, and I don’t want to put you in danger.” Not after what happened to Kurt.

“Oh, honey.” Sawyer heard forgiveness and compassion in her voice, neither of which he really felt like he’d earned, and he’d ended the call soon thereafter.

Nan was pushier and hard to say no too, especially because she felt guilty for, as she put it, “fucking up your life more than I needed to,” but there was no way Sawyer was going to take her away from her wife and kids. Besides, one of them needed to be working the case, and it wasn’t going to be him for the next mandatory two weeks of leave.

The one person Sawyer was interested in spending more time with was, ironically, the one who hadn’t said he’d be available. It wasn’t because Bashir wasn’t interested, Sawyer was pretty sure, although the space between them was quieter than it had been before, and not just because Sawyer was too tired to talk a lot of the time. It was because Bashir’s morgue was currently extremely understaffed.

Tami was under house arrest since she was a person of interest, and she wasn’t fighting it anymore. Once she’d seen that Bashir was done believing her—Sawyer hadn’t been there for that confrontation, but from what Bashir had described, it was a hard necessity—she’d gone into a sort of fugue state, pulling away from everyone and everything and shutting herself up in her house. A cop monitored her door and checked every package she received, but apart from that she had retreated from the world.

The fact that Andy Boyce had fucked off on vacation didn’t help matters either.